


Don't Waste Your Ears

by orphan_account



Series: The Meaning of "Ruling" [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Muteness, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 03:26:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8128628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Uther died, in perhaps the most pathetic way possible: killed by his children.





	

Morgana and Arthur had both been spoiled. They had been taught that their pains and struggles were very important and their shared father had done his best to eradicate them, within his understanding and purview. He had been spoiled, too, though. There was this epic struggle of wills between the three of them, and in the end those who suffered the most from it all were the unspoiled few at court. 

Gwenever had been so excited when Morgana had invited her into language and courtly behavior lessons. She acted as if the whole world had been given to her. Morgana herself had found herself coming up with various schemes to get out of the harsh moral scripture telling her who to be and how to be it, before Gwen came into her life. Then Morgana saw Gwen’s freedom to learn how to make things, to use her hands and strength. Gwen, in turn, saw Morgana’s access to things beyond physical labor. They helped each other out. 

Though Morgana was not privy to the ins and out of Arthur’s relationship with Merlin, she could observe fairly that there were some parallels to her relationship with wise Gwen. Some, being the operative word. She was not any more a part of that duo than Arthur was a part of her and Gwen. And Arthur certainly wasn’t sharing anything with her about Merlin. It has been years since she last heard that name in Arthur’s voice. It’ll probably be years, still, before she hears it again. 

Ultimately, Morgana had Gwen and Arthur had Merlin, and pigheaded though brother and sister may be, it was impossible to look at life the same way when they had such different eyes beside them, generously befriending them, watching a different world play that Arthur and Morgana never would’ve seen on their own. Uther, poor diseased man, had no one. It is because of this that Arthur and Morgana are still alive. 

Uther died, in perhaps the most pathetic way possible: killed by his children. 

He passed away into whatever it was one passed into, perhaps into eternal salvation, perhaps into the belly of worms (a question Morgana frequently flippantly waved off), but Arthur and Morgana were still there, hiding Uther away, just under their ribs. Each of them took the throne, sat where it felt most right; above everyone, finally able to choose whenever there was a choice. 

Such daydreams were illusory of course, but Morgana dreamed them all the same. 

She has never asked Arthur about what it felt like to be King. They don’t talk about it now. They never will. 

Among other things they don’t talk about are the months after Morgana escaped death by help of a baby dragon. Presumably when Merlin was revealed to be the “Greatest Sorcerer Who Ever Lived.” Arthur has only told her what Aithusa had already revealed to her, the rest she's done her best to piece together on her own. The events are as follows:

Merlin, Arthur’s dear servant, makes a mistake and accidentally reveals his true power. 

Gawain and Lancelot admit they suspected and already knew, respectively, then vow they won’t let Merlin be harmed. 

The rest of Arthur’s very loyal knights follow their example. 

Merlin says something to Arthur. 

Because of whatever it is Merlin said, Arthur and Gwen hatch a plan. 

Arthur leaves, Gwen becomes King. 

That’s the story and all its details.

~

Once Arthur and Morgana had found each other again, it was easy to become anonymous. They traveled north, into the deepest hills, into the thickest forests, and slowly found a way to survive. Arthur, already a very accomplished hunter, helped them discover the lay of the land, eagerly learned what he could from the amicable farmers of wayward villages. Morgana started to speak to the land as they traveled, the land they eventually tilled and worked. Her natural Sight expanded; her internal eye quieting while her external eyes grew ever the more powerful. She could hear and see parts of the world that were simply unimaginable. Her insight into the Earth and Arthur’s good-hearted will to put aside a sword and pick up a shovel, these skills took them from surviving to living to sometimes living happily. 

It was hard work but it was work they would do, so long as they didn’t have to go back.

They only ever used that phrase, “Go back,” when talking of their life from before. “Back” became a multitude of things: memories, duties, friends, enemies, and that strange binary of thought from which they had done their best to free themselves. Do this, not this. Be this, not this. Believe this, not this. Girl and boy. Evil and Good. Demon and Angel. Power and powerless. Magic and non-magic. Servant and Lord. Prince and King. 

It was endless, to Morgana, what “back” meant. 

They had settled down in a mountain village in the north, far from the main collection of abodes but still within the community bounds. Morgana would wander the village and edges of the woods, looking and speaking to friendly flora and trees. She did her best to help the crops of others grow and volunteered what labor she could in the smith’s forges. She accidentally became a medicine woman, taking what she learned from Aithusa and giving what she could to those around her. Arthur worked with animals, working with the shepherds and goatherds of the village, waiting until the day he could have a flock of his own. They learned the things that Merlin and Gwen has learned, before Merlin and Gwen came to court to ultimately change Camelot for the better. 

The mountains were good to them. They gave Morgana solitude for her studies and sometimes she could hear their voices in her sleep, where once nightmares of fate had crept in. 

They gave much to Arthur as well. He spent a lot of time climbing about the rocks and gazing across great bluffs. When Morgana saw him during the day she only ever saw him breathing hard and deeply, face flushed from exercise, eyes alight and fiery in a way she’d never seen before. When they had met Ellie, a wild wolf Morgana had insisted on naming Eleanor which Arthur had insisted on ignoring in favor of his own affectionate moniker, Arthur had lit up from the inside. He and that silly wild beast would go running, just running, though dense forest and down steep hills. They went hunting together, Arthur, a bow and arrow, Eleanor, her massive teeth.

It was that beautiful monstrous animal that taught Arthur how to speak again. 

The last time Morgana had heard Arthur’s voice was that terrifying week in which she lay in fever, alone, and her recent righteous scheme dissolved into dust. She had fallen ill from a storm that had blown apart her modest hut on the shoreline and Aithusa simply couldn’t retrieve her from where she had descended in her mind. So Aithusa had retrieved Arthur instead, lost but determined to find his sister. Together, Arthur and Aithusa nursed her back to health, and when she was lucid enough to see that Arthur was not just a dream, a desperate hope and nightmarish enemy in one fabricated being, he told her this:

“Merlin is magic. He lied to me. Like you did. I gave the throne to Gwen. The knights and Camelot are hers.”

To which she responded by screeching like a dying bird. 

To which he responded by pleading, “Help me, please.”

She got better, gained back her physical strength if not yet her magical one, and gave up. She gave up the throne, she gave up fighting, she gave up whatever power she had since possessed. She was burnt outside in. She was done. 

Together, they shaved their heads and tossed their shimmering locks into the waves. They made identical shallow slices down their sternums and let their blood drip into the ocean, watched the deep red drown in the coarse salty water. They killed Uther, again, and permanently. In that sad sea, Morgana heard Arthur’s voice for the last time. 

“I’ve always loved the ocean.” He had said. 

Morgana had laughed, her head so infinitely light from the loss of her mane.

In the short month that followed, where Arthur and Morgana set out North without purpose or quest, but just because it was as good a direction as any, Arthur stopped talking. At first, he whispered only. And then he didn’t use words at all. Morgana herself never once questioned it. She never brought it up, never asked him what sort of game he was playing. There weren’t any more games because there weren’t any more rules. The boundaries they knew had shattered. So instead of spending energy or time trying to get Arthur to use his tongue, she learned how to listen. 

One night, early on in their traveling, they sat huddled together next to a dying fire. Morgana was waving her hand through the flames, watching them change color at her fingertips and gleefully press kisses to her wrist. She performed no spell, yet here was something magic. She looked up at Arthur’s face, expecting to see wariness but finding such pure and unselfish curiosity practically dripping from his raised eyebrows and twitching lips. She giggled at his slightly gaping mouth. He smirked at her, in turn. She nudged his shoulder. 

Then came one of the most beautiful sounds she had ever heard.

Warm, soft, taste, shhhh, warmmmmm.

“Is that…?” she had gasped, withdrawing her hands in shock. “Is that…?”

Warm, shhhhh, warm, handssshhhh. 

“That’s you, isn’t it?” she asked the fire gently. “That’s you?” 

Touch, warmmmm, handssshhh, the fire replied. 

Immediately she placed her hands back in the flames and heard a raspy giggle come up through her palms. 

Handshshhhhh, the fire continued to beg. 

So she grabbed a very confused Arthur’s hands and placed them in the flames as well. 

Handsshshhh, HANDSSSSHHHH, the fire delightfully squealed. 

“Can you hear it?” she asked Arthur as he gazed in wonder at the dancing flames wrapping around his fingers. He shook his head, with a small frown, but then very deliberately placed a thick palm on her forearm. 

“You can feel it?” she guessed. He nodded. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “Isn’t it?” 

He nodded again. 

Handssshhhhshshsh, touchhhhhshhhs, warmckckc, handsssshh, the fire sighed.

No, Morgana never demanded Arthur speak any more than she demanded it of anyone or anything else. She had ears for a reason. She wasn’t going to waste them.


End file.
